Desperate Times
Claude was having a bad day. A bad fortnight really, ever since pantalon-man had disappeared. He was a cretin, but at least he wasn’t obviously psychotic, or mort-vivant, or boring, which made him a slightly less ghastly conversation partner than the rest of the crew. L’enfer, c’est indeed les autres. More importantly, the magic trousers were helpful in sourcing the daily selection of cheese and wines that kept the ennui at bay, and they were gone. This wouldn’t have been that much of a problem in normal circumstances - Claude knew enough little known épiceries and restaurateurs around town, quiet little establishments where he just had to walk in and give the (usually bemoustached) man behind the counter a curt nod to prompt him to disappear round the back of the shop and come back with the good stuff they didn’t even put on display for it would be wasted on the London populace. But this martial law business meant the stocks of said good stuff were dwindling. This meant longer and longer walks around town, having to compromise in choice of vintage, or settling for less mature Chaource. There also had been this kerfuffle with the intruder and the electric gadget. That had interrupted his grasse matinée reading Sartre in bed, which was bad enough, but really what got to him was the choice of weapon. Those rosbifs had no class. There’s no need to involve electricity in a job that only required something either sharp or blunt depending on the outcome required. A bad fortnight indeed. Even throwing knife practice and cooking, two activities that usually helped him relax, failed to work their magic and left him tense. He tried combining the two by juggling 5 blades, a plucked chicken, 2 onions and 14 cloves of garlic above a chopping board balanced on a casserole dish, trying to empty his mind, refine his dexterity and prepare a coq-au-vin, but all that left him with was a headache and a delicious family meal, serves 5. Also, this could have done with a third onion, really. He reminisced about this as he checked his disguise in the mirror. A bad day. A new low, having to compromise to this despicable degree. Still, his skill would come in handy - the mirror showed him the image of a perfect englishman. No one need know who he was and what he was about to do. He set off for the shop. “May I help you, sir?” The five words chilled Claude’s blood to the ideal serving temperature of a ‘74 Chateauneuf-du-Pape (12.3C). They knew! Somehow the minions of Albion could not help but detect his gallic nonchalance in spite of his disguise. He put on his best cockney accent and turned to the Fortnum and Mason shop assistant. “O’ight, guv’nor, I was after some of youse John, yeah?” “I beg your pardon, sir?” The shop assistant was taken aback - the cockney accent was perfect - to him, this man certainly sounded English. But the way he looked, if anything, was too english - or too many different kinds of english. Claude, having trouble distinguishing between tastelessness and tastelessness, had combined a a pair of posh tight red trousers, a Manchester United football shirt, an Arsenal football scarf and a bowler hat. “You know, mate... John Cleese... Cheese” Claude lowered his voice “Stilton?” “Ah, well of course, just at the end of that shelf over there.” The indignity. Claude’s ears were buzzing with shame as he grabbed the cheese, and, in that moment where a man who’s truly reached his nadir realise he’s been in for so many pennies he might as well throw a tenner in, got some crackers as well. Baguettes were in short supply too. Claude was having a bad day. The town had run out of Bleu d’Auvergne. Sometimes a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Back at the base, nibbling both furtively and resentfully on his shopping, Claude reluctantly had to admit to himself that this wasn’t so bad, actually. Maybe those tea-drinkers were on to something. It’s only when he started contemplating getting chutney as well that he realised this was probably the ennui speaking.